I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl

by Gretchen McNeil

  Behind her trailed stepsisters Dakota Mills and Noel Tattinger. They came from more money than God, which a dizzying array of stepparents seemed to throw around with reckless abandon. I wasn’t even sure if they were technically related—their parents changed partners faster than square dancers—but I assumed they still resided in the same house at least part of the time, considering their wardrobes, as well as their personalities, were interchangeable.

  “Who’s tha . . . ,” Dakota said. Her voice trailed into lazy silence. Consonants and punctuation were just too much effort.

  “I dunno,” Noel echoed. I could barely discern the last syllable as the vocal fry drowned out her diction.

  And then came Cassilyn. Beautiful and poised as ever, as if she were an actress in a high school sitcom with wardrobe, hair, and makeup crews at the ready for instant touch-ups.

  “Oh em gee,” Gabe said, taking Cassilyn’s hand as he examined the designer bag on her arm. “I am so glad you went with the Michael Kors over the Tory Burch! That bitch is so last spring.”

  Cassilyn blinked, taking in Gabe’s ridiculous getup. I could see her register the bow tie, the hairdo, the suspenders, and heart-shaped sunglasses. And then, just like that, she accepted him.

  “I know, right?” She laughed, tossing her hair. “I was just telling Esme the same thing last week. Tory is done.”

  Esmeralda turned to the side, flashing her own Michael Kors handbag. It was the same shade as Cassilyn’s—an off-white snakeskin—but it was twice as large and twice as expensive.

  “As if I didn’t own one already,” she said. Her eyes flew to the bag dangling from Cassilyn’s shoulder, as if desperately trying to prove that she wasn’t copying her friend’s style. Which meant, of course, that she was.

  “We love Michael Kor . . . ,” Dakota and Noel said in perfect unison, even leaving out the final s together.

  But Cassilyn had already moved on. “What’s your name?” she asked Gabe, smiling sweetly.

  “Gabriel Muñoz. And these are my friends, Spencer and Bea.”

  Four sets of eyes turned to us blankly. They’d bought Gabe and his gay-best-friend routine, but the two of us? Not so much. Hopefully, I could fix that.

  “Math Girl,” I said, pointing to myself. Self-deprecation might ingratiate me. “That’s how you guys know me. Highest GPA in school and I aced every exam in Algebra II, so if any of you—”

  “Who are you?” Cassilyn asked, her wide blue eyes fixed on Spencer.

  “Spencer,” he replied, then looked away, refusing to elaborate.

  “He’s an artist,” I said, doubling down. “Maybe you’ve seen some of his portraits at the Heinzmueller Gallery downtown?”

  Gabe choked as I used Kurt’s last name for my fictitious gallery. “Sorry,” he said, recovering quickly. “I’m okay. Zoopa, really.”

  “Portraits?” Cassilyn asked. “Like with paint and stuff.”

  Oh boy. “Yeah,” I said, forcing myself not to roll my eyes. “Spencer just came back from a tour of Western Europe, and he’s planning an entire show based around portraits of the Fullerton Hills football team.”

  Cassilyn took a step toward him. “Really?”

  For a split second, I wasn’t sure if Spencer was going to play along or tell me to piss off and storm out of the foyer. I held my breath.

  “Yeah,” he said. His whole body seemed to go limp with the word. “Portraits. Football team.”

  Cassilyn sucked in a breath. “That is so awesome.”

  I wanted to dance around the foyer. The Formula had worked. We were in public having an actual conversation with the most popular girls at school, and no one was making fun of us. If only Jesse had been there to see it.

  The electronic buzzer ripped through the foyer. Five minutes until class. Spencer jumped at the opportunity to extricate himself from the situation.

  “Gotta go,” he said, hurrying off, not even pausing to wait for me even though we had first period together.

  “See you later,” Cassilyn cried after him, then turned to Gabe. “You too. You’re my new favorite.”

  Cassilyn trailed down the hall, followed by her friends. The instant they were out of earshot, Gabe draped himself over my shoulder. “That was truly zoopa.”

  NINE

  “SO HOW DID it go this morning?” I asked the second Gabe joined me at our lunch table. I noticed that he’d greeted a dozen people as he promenaded across the cafeteria.

  “Zoopa!” I held up my hand for a high five, which he playfully smacked. Then, making sure that no one was paying close attention, he leaned forward and dropped the act. “I talked to Poston in his office after second period,” he said. “Told him about my idea for the article. He thinks it’s brilliant. Perfect for the Register.”

  “Awesome.”

  He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open, revealing a page and a half of scribbles. “I’ve already documented instances of people treating me differently. And the more outlandish I behave, the more attention I get.”

  I smirked. “Sounds like you’re enjoying it.”

  “A little.” Then he sighed. “Now if I can just stomach this stereotype for a few weeks.”

  “At least twenty-five percent of the student body already knows your name,” I said, mentally calculating it based on the response I’d just witnessed. “Gabriel is already significantly more popular than Gabe.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s what bothers me.”

  “Eyes on the prize, Muñoz,” I said, patting his hand. “If you nail that article, the internship is yours.”

  “Which might make all this crap worth it.” Spencer slid into the booth next to Gabe and slouched down, propping his legs up on the seat next to me.

  “Speaking of crap,” Gabe said, smiling sweetly, “any takers on your portraits?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Ha-ha.”

  I pushed his shoes off the cushioned bench. “Seriously. Have you mentioned it to anyone besides Cassilyn?”

  “Oh yeah,” Spencer said, head tilted to the side. “I marched right up to Thad and Milo and said, Dudes, how about I paint you? I thought the idea was to avoid getting my ass kicked. Not invite it.”

  “You have to make an effort at some point or this won’t work.”

  Spencer nodded across the cafeteria. “I don’t see you over there chatting them up about the Pythagorean theorem.”

  “Nice reference,” Gabe said.

  “Thanks.”

  I knew Spencer was just trying to annoy me, so I ignored the jab and turned to check out the cluster of lunch tables in the middle of the main dining room. Cassilyn, Esmeralda, and the stepsisters were there, as well as Milo, Thad, and a coterie of football players and wannabe fashionistas, one of whom was telling a very animated story that seemed to have everyone’s rapt attention. Her arms gesticulated wildly, and blond hair fluttered around the side of her sparkly hot-pink snood.

  Toile.

  Okay, fine. She’d been accepted by the cool kids after only twenty-four hours. So what? Who cared if she was already popular while I’d been at that stupid school for three years and no one even knew my name?

  I did.

  As I continued to watch her hold court, a figure approached Toile’s table, tall and lean and wearing a navy beanie.

  I shot to my feet. “Jesse!” I cried way too loudly, and waved my arms over my head like I was trying to guide a 747 to the runway. He hesitated, casting a glance at Toile’s table, then turned and walked toward me.

  “Amazing,” Spencer said while Jesse was still out of earshot, “that he managed to forget where we sit after only one day.”

  “It’s a big cafeteria,” I said.

  “Mmhm.”

  Jesse stared at me as he lowered himself onto the bench. “You look different.”

  That’s right. I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him about the Formula yet. “Long story,” I said, laughing. “I’ll explain after school when you drive me home.”r />
  “Oh.”

  Gabe arched an eyebrow. “I think she’s got kind of a sexy-librarian thing going on. What do you think, Jesse?”

  “I guess,” he said. “I’ve never seen you in glasses.”

  Did that mean he liked them? Or didn’t like them? Jesse’s dark brown eyes were unreadable, and suddenly, I felt incredibly self-conscious. “I never wear them,” I said quickly, snatching them off my nose. The cafeteria went fuzzy. “Just today, really.”

  “Oh,” he repeated.

  Spencer glanced up at me. “I like the glasses.”

  “‘Where can I find a woman like that?’” Gabe sang.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Spencer said through gritted teeth.

  Jesse cocked his head. “I thought you didn’t like girls.”

  Gabe grinned. “I don’t.”

  A bleating laugh carried across the cafeteria, above the fevered pitch of the assembled student body, and we turned to see Toile giggling hysterically with the popular people.

  “I wonder what they’re talking about,” Jesse said.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the wistfulness in his tone or Spencer’s goading that made me do it, but I hooked my glasses over my ears and nudged Jesse out of the booth. “There’s only one way to find out.” Then I turned and marched toward Cassilyn’s table.

  In my three years at Fullerton Hills I’d never once approached a table in the center of the main cafeteria. Even clueless freshman Beatrice had known better than to swim with the big fish in open water, and the closer I got, the harder my heart pounded in my chest.

  You’ll be fine, I told myself. Don’t panic. Right. I remembered how easily Gabe and Spencer had been accepted this morning, simply by following the Formula. That’s all I had to do. I was a math nerd coming to offer my services as a tutor. I had something they needed. They would respect that.

  Then why are your palms sweating?

  I felt as if every pair of eyes in the cafeteria was on me, watching the bespectacled nerd Math Girl approach the forbidden zone. Realistically, I estimated a mere 5 percent of students had even noted my migration from the north room, but in my mind, it was as if a giant spotlight were following me, drawing focus. I wanted to turn around and flee, but I couldn’t. I’d gone too far, past the event horizon to the point of social suicide. Close enough to hear their conversation.

  “What is that?” Cassilyn said, eyeing the hot-pink monstrosity hooked to the back of Toile’s head.

  Toile smiled. “It’s called a snood.”

  “That sounds dirt . . .” Dakota’s voice trailed off.

  “Total . . . ,” Noel echoed.

  “It’s my new favorite,” Cassilyn said. A queen laying down the law.

  Esmeralda tossed her long black hair. “I have one at home. Had it for ages.”

  Cassilyn smirked at Toile. “Sure she does.”

  Thad spun around from the adjacent table. “Yo, Cass,” he said. “How about we go to the back-to-school dance together?”

  Was that how popular guys asked girls out? It seemed so impersonal.

  Cassilyn was equally unimpressed. “How about you ask me nicely?”

  “He did ask you nicely,” Esmeralda said, her eyes narrowing on Cassilyn. For best friends, there was a lot of Haterade being consumed.

  Thad was about to respond when his eyes landed on me. “Who are you?”

  Crap. Not the entrance I wanted to make. “I’m Beatrice,” I blurted out, momentarily forgetting the reason I was there. “I mean, Math Girl. That’s how you know me.”

  Thad blinked. “What do you want?”

  I took a quick breath. Play the role. “I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m offering free tutoring for anyone who might need help passing Algebra II or Trig and—”

  “Algebra is so hard,” Toile said with a pitiful little sigh.

  “I know,” Cassilyn said. “I hate math.”

  “Math sucks,” Thad chimed in, right on her heels.

  Esmeralda wasn’t to be outdone. “Math is the worst. I hate it more than anyone.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Algebra isn’t the worst.” How could they hate math? What was wrong with them? Couldn’t they see the beautiful order of a perfectly constructed equation? No, of course not. They could barely add.

  Thad rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Math Girl.”

  Ugh, I was losing them. “Well, if you need help passing exams, I’d be happy to—”

  “Are you friends with Jesse Sullivan?” Toile asked. “He is such a sweetie.”

  I was so confused by the speed at which she’d changed the conversation, I was momentarily struck dumb.

  “Who?” Cassilyn asked.

  Toile pointed Jesse out to her. “He’s over there in the navy beanie. He totally showed me around school on my first day.”

  “Actually,” I said, my brain finally catching up with the conversation. I didn’t like the way Toile was talking about my boyfriend. “Jesse and I are—”

  Cassilyn stood up, her gaze still locked on our lunch table in the north room. “You’re friends with that painter guy, right?”

  “Spencer?”

  She nodded and glanced toward the north room. “Is he really painting portraits now? Like of real people?”

  No, he’s painting portraits of fake people, Cassilyn. “Yes.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I’d love to have my portrait done.”

  “I don’t know.” I glanced at Milo and Thad. “He wanted to focus on the athletics program.”

  “Oh my God!” Toile grasped Cassilyn’s arm. “You would look absolutely ethereal in pastels.”

  Cassilyn tilted her head to the side. “I’m more of a spring. Bright colors with warm undertones.”

  Toile laughed. “No, silly. They’re paints! And they’d totally bring out your coloring.”

  Cassilyn’s eyes grew wide. “Do you think?”

  “Of course!” Toile squealed. “Can you imagine? A portrait of you gracing a museum wall? Immortalized for all eternity.”

  “For all eternity,” Cassilyn repeated.

  “You’d be perfect as a model.” Toile turned to me. “Don’t you think?”

  I wanted to kill her. “Sure.”

  “Awesome.” Cassilyn took my hand, squeezing it gently. “Can you tell Spencer I’m interested and I can start right away? Thanks. Bye!”

  TEN

  I HURRIED TO my locker after the final bell, ready to get the hell off campus for the day. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been humiliated at school before, but somehow it felt so much more pathetic when it came at the hands of Toile, the new girl, who had been there for two days and was already approximately 91 percent more popular than I was.

  To make matters worse, Jesse had witnessed my failure firsthand. As soon as I’d returned to our table, he’d asked what Cassilyn and I had been talking about, and if we’d been invited to eat lunch with them or join them at D’Caffeinated after school for tutoring. I told him that we’d talked about Spencer, and no, I didn’t actually have a tutoring date with anyone from Cassilyn’s circle. I could see the brightness fade from Jesse’s face, and by the time the bell rang, he’d practically raced from the cafeteria.

  I just needed to explain to him what we were doing. On the drive home I’d lay out the whole Formula and tell him how he’d practically inspired this new role for me when he suggested it yesterday. I’d point out that the Formula had an 89 percent chance of success, which meant I’d probably be at least marginally popular by midterms. Not only that, but with the Formula, I had the perfect research to submit for the MIT scholarship. Which meant our plans to go to college together in Boston were still on track.

  I slammed my locker door, still picturing Jesse and I traipsing through Boston Common together next year, when I caught sight of my boyfriend’s navy beanie at the end of the hallway heading out to the parking lot. At his side, a sparkly, hot-pink snood.

  Jesse was leaving with Toile?

  They were halfway down
the steps to the parking lot when I burst through the door. “Jesse!” I picked up my wheelie bag by the handle and hustled after them. The overstuffed bag slapped against my thigh, and I had to lean to one side like a listing ship to keep the wheels from smacking onto the ground. I managed to overtake them just as they reached his car. “Jesse.”

  He stopped, and turned toward me. “Oh, hey, Bea. What’s up?”

  What’s up? “You’re driving me home.”

  He blinked. “Sure, yeah. I’m taking Toile home too.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, even though it was not. For the second time that day, Toile was messing up my plans. I wrenched open the front passenger door and slipped into the seat. It was sweltering in the car, which had been sitting in the blazing Southern California sun all day, but I didn’t care. No way was Toile riding shotgun.

  “Sorry.” Jesse’s voice was muffled through the tinted glass window. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to her.

  I clutched my bag to my chest as we backed out of his spot. The silence was almost as thick as the stifling air in the car.

  “Are you going to your mom’s?” Jesse asked when we were a few blocks away.

  He never could remember whose house I was at on any given day. “I’m at my dad’s Wednesday night through Sunday morning,” I explained for the dozenth time.

  “I love your school,” Toile offered, unsolicited.

  I turned to look at her. “Yay. I’m so glad.” I couldn’t even manufacture the fake enthusiasm required to make that comment sound less bitchy.

  Toile reached forward and patted me on the head, like a mom commending a small child. “You’re sweet, Bea.” Then she caught her breath and pointed over Jesse’s shoulder, through the front windshield. “Look!”

  I spun around and braced my arms against the glove compartment expecting to see an eighteen-wheeler barreling toward us for a head-on collision. Instead, there was an ice cream truck parked across the street.

  Toile gripped Jesse’s arm. “Can we stop? Please, please, pretty please, with sprinkles and a cherry on top?”

  A traveling food dispensary? Gross. “You know, even with modern regulations in the wake of the food-truck craze, unlicensed vendors like this are notorious for substandard hygienic condi—”